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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26319889">looking all around (but never right next to you)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisnightsrevels/pseuds/thisnightsrevels'>thisnightsrevels</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Artwork by kalgalen, Autistic Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Canon Compliant Burn Wounds, Canon Compliant Tea, Canon Compliant Worm Scars, Jon has a meltdown, M/M, References to Jane Prentiss (slight), Tim and Sashas harebrained schemes, they try to set Jon up on a date</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:47:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,870</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26319889</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisnightsrevels/pseuds/thisnightsrevels</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>If anyone were to care enough to ask, Jonathan Sims was perfectly happy being single, (thank you very much Tim). He did not, in fact, feel the need to engage in a relationship simply because it was expected of him, and, besides, he didn’t have time for another person at the moment. </p><p>(That said, Tim was 100% about to change that)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood (implied)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>374</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Rusty Quill Big Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>looking all around (but never right next to you)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If anyone were to care enough to ask, Jonathan Sims was perfectly happy being single, (thank you very much Tim). He did not, in fact, feel the need to engage in a relationship simply because it was expected of him, and, besides, he didn’t have time for another person at the moment. </p><p>No, Gertrude Robinson had seen to that when she decided to leave the Archives in such a state of disarray that to liken it to a bombsite would be to offend the bombsite. Jon hadn’t had much of a social life before his promotion, the rare occasion where Tim dragged him out for drinks being the only noteworthy exception. If pressed, Jon would admit that the last actual relationship he had been in was with one Georgie Barker, though they had long since lost touch. </p><p>Besides, it’s not like he doesn’t have anyone. Despite how grouchy he can be towards them, (and even then it’s out of a desire to see them produce the best work they can) (though, maybe, he is a touch harsher than necessary) he does, in fact, care about his archival assistants. And yeah, maybe at times he goes a touch too far with his critiques (one Martin Blackwood comes to mind here).</p><p>At least enough to count them as his friends, and after Prentiss and her godforsaken worms attacked and left the four of them shaken, scarred (heavily traumatised) but alive, Jon had begrudgingly accepted that they were, in fact, important to him..</p><p> </p><p>He would never really get why recording these statements always took it so out of him, especially these ones that refused to be recorded on the laptop. What was frustrating was that there was no way of knowing when one would come up, they seemed completely random, and there was never a way of telling them apart at a glance. </p><p>Jon was just after recording one such statement, some nonsense about a supposed ‘magic door’ that haunted some poor woman since childhood, when there came a knock at the door. A glance at the clock in the corner of his laptop screen shows that, yes, as usual, eleven o’clock, on the dot. The door opens and he sees Martin poke his head in, one hand firmly gripping the handle of a mug. </p><p>“Tea?”  asks Martin, already moving to place it down on the desk.</p><p>A sudden irrational wave of anger swelled over Jon, shocking him, Before he could process it, he’d already barked at Martin to get out. A look of hurt flashed over Martins face, and he ducked his head, closing the office door behind him.</p><p>Jon sat back in his chair, bewildered and frustrated at his own actions. He’d gotten far better at controlling his emotions over the years, but occasionally he’d have a moment like this, wherein his control slips or his own emotions catch him off guard and then he blows up. </p><p>Guilt, then shame, wash over him in quick succession, and he’s on his feet before he knows it, climbing nimbly over the carefully arranged stacks of files and loose pages around his floor to grab the door and yank it open. </p><p>“Martin-”</p><p>He stops short when he sees his assistants pulling on coats and seemingly getting ready to leave.</p><p>“Where are you all going?” he asks, baffled. </p><p>“Lunch time!” calls Tim, cheerfully. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten what lunch is?”</p><p> </p><p>Jon stares, perplexed.</p><p>Tim looked at him, worry briefly flashing over his features before his usual teasing grin snaps back into place.</p><p>“You haven’t forgotten about lunch, have you?”</p><p>“No, I haven’t,” snaps Jon. “I’m just confused as to why you all seem to be swanning off for lunch at eleven in the morning.”</p><p>“Er, Jon?” Sasha takes a couple of hesitant steps towards him. “It’s just gone one o'clock?”</p><p>Jon looks up to the wall clock that looms on the wall.</p><p>One o’clock.</p><p>Huh. He must have lost time again. </p><p>Better make a note of that.</p><p>“Hey, why don’t you come with us?” suggests Tim. “Do you good to get out, get some fresh air because regardless what they told us, I swear my desk is still coated in worm goo and I do not think that you should be breathing that stuff in.”</p><p>“Ah, right,” Jon is still a bit thrown off by how much time he’d lost, but Tim, annoyingly, is right. Besides, after Prentiss, the Archives had lost that liminal aura of untouchability, and none of them felt entirely comfortable knowing that there wasn’t anyone within earshot. As well as that, he still had to apologise to Martin. Unlike when Jon gave out to him for misfiling something or making seemingly simple mistakes, Martin had genuinely done nothing wrong, and deserved an apology.</p><p>Tim seems surprised at how easily Jon agrees, and turns to where Sasha is checking the lights are out in the kitchenette.</p><p>“Sasha, did you ever think you’d live to see the day where Mr. ‘No Fun In The Archives’ would willingly come down from his ivory tower to join us?”</p><p>“We work underground, Tim.”</p><p>“Spoilsport.”</p><p>A thought occurs to him, and Jon looks around.</p><p>“Where’s Martin?”</p><p>Tim squares his shoulders.</p><p>“Why, want to yell at him for not double-knotting his shoelaces?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Jon shakes his head, already regretting listening to his conscience.</p><p>“Actually, I’ll have you know I want to apologise for how I spoke to him. It wasn’t fair.”</p><p>Tim tilts his head, considering.</p><p>Beside him, Sasha seems to lose her patience sighing “he’s outside waiting, Jon.” before brushing past the pair, muttering something to herself about ‘stupid posturing’.</p><p>Jon relents his pseudo-staring contest with Tim (is it even a staring contest if you don’t make eye contact?) and follows suit, the other man close behind him.</p><p>It’s not until they actually get outside and the cold winter air hits them that Jon starts realising how much he loves his office. There’s no wind, but the chill is sharp enough that it’s stabbing into his bad leg and affecting the joint. Not enough that it caused his leg to seize up, but enough that his gait is somewhat uneven as they reach where Martin is leaning against the low brick wall bearing the Institute name. </p><p>Martin looks up as they approach, but whatever he was going to say dies on his tongue when he sees Jon, instead opting to stare resolutely at the seagull death match currently going on down on the pavement a short ways from the building. </p><p>“Martin,” starts Jon, opting to get this over with as soon as possible. “Martin, I’m sorry I shouted at you, there was no reason to do so and I don’t know why I did it. I lost my temper, and while I don’t know why, it does not excuse the fact that I shouldn’t have shouted at you. I apologise, and promise to try keep a better handle on my emotions in the future.”</p><p>When he looks up from where he had fixed his gaze on Martins sleeve, it’s to see three matching sets of shocked expressions. Irritation wells up in him again but he tamps it down. Snapping at them now would be counter-intuitive.</p><p>The silence is getting annoying, and he throws a pointed look at [Tim?]</p><p>“Uh,” stutters Martin. “Thank you? I guess?”</p><p>There’s an uncomfortable silence.</p><p>“Well then,” chirped Sasha, pushing her glasses up from where they were sliding down. “Where do we want to go for food?”</p><p>Jon shrugs, it’s not particularly important to him. He doubts they wind up going anywhere expensive for their hour. </p><p>“I don’t mind,” chimes in Martin. “I’m good with anything really.”</p><p>“Well, so long as we go somewhere soon!” says Sasha. “This is the first time in forever that there aren’t grey skies over London and I’d like to be inside somewhere warm before that changes!”</p><p>Tim seems to realise that an agreement isn’t being reached anytime soon and decides for the group.</p><p>The closest deli doesn’t exactly have Michelin star quality food, but what they do have is hot and quick to eat. The group reach the small corner shop and make a beeline for the hot counter, Sasha blowing into her cold hands as they go.</p><p>Tim is about to turn to Jon and ask if he wants Tim to order for him, a joke about the Esteemed Archivist not being used to peasant food ready to go, only to see Jon halfway through rattling off an order for a hot chicken roll with fillings. To top off the whole bizarre image, the woman behind the counter greets him by name as she hands him the wrapped roll, asking whether or not he was going to go ahead with getting that cat. Jon, normally one to baulk at the idea of talking to strangers, responds with a half smile as he tells her that no, his new position at work means he just hasn’t the time to spare for a pet. </p><p>Food in hand, Jon turns to ask Tim if he could get past so he could go pay, seemingly not noticing him wipe his face of the shocked expression.</p><p>Once everyone is outside, deli food in hand, Sasha guides them over to a nearby picnic bench. As soon as everyone is settled, Tim, electing to sit pigeon-pose on the actual table instead of on the bench like the others, makes a comment about how surprised he was to see ‘the Almighty Archivist’ being so familiar with deli food.</p><p>“You forget I was once a broke college student too.”</p><p>“Yeah, like, a million years ago.” </p><p>Jon hums.</p><p>“Mm, now I’m just broke.”</p><p>“Was that a joke?”</p><p>“Maybe”</p><p>Conversation soon turns to Sasha and Tim gossiping about some office drama from upstairs, something about this person slept with that person but that person is actually married to some third party. It’s all very inane soap opera stuff, and Jon wastes no time in telling them so.</p><p>“Of course,” he continues, deadpan. “Nothing anywhere near so dramatic would ever happen to us down in the Archives.”</p><p>Almost at the same time, Martin says “God forbid anything so mundane or safe would ever happen to us down in the Archives,” before their small group cracks up. </p><p>Once the laughter dies down, Tim rounds in on Jon.</p><p>“And what about you, Bossman?” he grins. “Any illicit affairs? Any-” he pulls a comical face “-torrid romances?”</p><p>Jon feels his hackles raise.</p><p>“None of your business, Stoker.”</p><p>“Aw, come on.” Tim, never one to let things go easily, leans across the table towards Jon, interrupting Martins enjoyment of his jambon. Sasha has a disapproving look on her face, but does nothing to stop him.</p><p>Ignoring Martins indignant “hey!”, Tim continues his line of questioning.</p><p>“What about the lady from the counter? She seemed pretty chummy.”</p><p>Jon looked up from his roll, glaring at Tim. </p><p>“Marguerite is also happily married, and, as I said before, it’s none of your business.”</p><p>Tim opens his mouth again only for Jon to cut him off.</p><p>“-Tim. Please. This is inappropriate and it is making me uncomfortable. There isn’t ‘anyone’. So please. Stop.”</p><p>Tim finally relents, holding his hands up in defeat as he retreats to his side of the table.</p><p>There’s a moment of peace and then-</p><p>“So, Martin-”</p><p>“TIM!”</p><p> </p><p>After their little outing, the weather had turned for the worst, and had remained that way for the last fortnight.</p><p>Jon had returned to his usual solitary work style, only interacting with the others when he needed them for something or they had a pressing question or a form for him to sign off on.</p><p>The only exception had been Martin. </p><p>Jon was, by nature, a creature of habit. Routine comforted him, so when Martin showed no sign of stopping his regular eleven am mugs of tea, Jon made an effort to be nicer to him when he tried to make idle conversation. It didn't go perfectly smoothly, at times Jons emotions would get the better of him, but he made a concentrated effort to prevent another blow up, and the one time it had happened Jon had made sure to apologise as soon as he could.</p><p>(Speaking of apologies, the memory of an irate Sasha frog marching Tim to Jons office to make him apologise has definitely managed to lodge itself as one of Jons new favourite memories.)</p><p> </p><p>Tim, however, has never been one for routine, so seeing Martin get up and walk over to the kitchenette at 10:54 every day like clockwork to make a pot of tea for the office, and to then make a cup for Jon and wait outside the man's office until exactly eleven to knock-</p><p>Well, it was either sad or impressive but either way, it’s dedication.</p><p>Normally it follows the same pattern, Martin knocks, waits a moment, then enters. Then it’s fifty-fifty whether he brings the cup back out again. </p><p>Today, Martin enters the office with the usual cup but doesn’t immediately reemerge.</p><p> </p><p>When Martin enters, he sees Jon across the room, sorting through a filing cabinet.</p><p>“Jon?”</p><p>He turns around from the waist, gesturing helplessly at what appears to Martin to be a disorganised mess.</p><p>“Ah, yes, tea.” Jon tries to extract himself but his foot catches so he remains rooted to the spot. “Could you leave it on the desk, please? Only I’m a bit, ah, well. Stuck.”</p><p>Martin nods and is about to put the cup on the desk when the thought occurs to him and he asks Jon what he was doing anyways?</p><p>“Oh, ah, well, I was reading this statement earlier and it seemed remarkably similar to one about-”</p><p>Martin listens as Jon details his theories regarding old folks' homes and attics and exterminators and the bizarre incendiary death of Jane Prentiss’ landlord.</p><p>He doesn’t know how long Jon has been talking, but he’s detailing how the undertaker met with a couple of people, one of whom bore an uncanny resemblance to Arthur Nolan when he cuts himself off.</p><p>“Ah, right. Sorry about that.” Jon states sheepishly. “This is one that’s been bothering me for a while now, I can’t help but feel like these cases are connected somehow. There are some things that have been coming up, over and over again, and I can’t help but feel that fire and insects are two of them.”</p><p>Jon pauses, thoughtful.</p><p>“It sounds silly when I say it aloud, doesn’t it?”</p><p>Before Martin can protest, Jon waves his hand as if to dismiss the thought.</p><p>“Anyways, I’ll let you get back to your work. I know for a fact that you have more important things to do.”</p><p>Martin doesn’t want to push his luck regarding Jons amiable mood, so he goes to place the cup down on Jon’s desk.</p><p>He’s about to leave when Jon pulls something out of the cabinet with a delighted ‘aha!’. </p><p>It’s just as Martin is opening the door that Jon manages to trip over his lame leg and fall forwards. Instinct drives Martin forwards to try catch him, but at the same time the memory of the last time he put a hand on Jon without asking first flashes through his mind and he cringes back. Jon manages to catch himself on the desk.</p><p>“Jon!” Martin is clinging onto the doorframe as though it will stop him from trying to help. “Are you okay!”</p><p>“I’m fine, Martin.” he replies through gritted teeth. “I’m just fine.”</p><p>Behind him he can hear Tim and Sasha walk up, no doubt drawn over by the commotion.</p><p>“Y’alright, Bossman?”</p><p>“Yeah we heard shouting,” chimes in Sasha. “Are you okay?”</p><p>“Honestly, you lot,” Jon carefully lowers himself back into his chair. “I’m perfectly alright, I just slipped.”</p><p>“Well, you can’t exactly blame us for being worried.” Sasha countered. “Last time we heard you cry out like that it was because there was a literal wave of worms pouring through the wall and we all almost got eaten by said worms.”</p><p>“Fair point.”</p><p>“Jon, I’m so sorr-” starts Martin.</p><p>“Martin, it’s fine.” Jon cuts him off. “I’m okay, really. I’ve had far worse in my time.”</p><p>He turns to look pointedly at a patch of wall where the paint is significantly cleaner than the rest.</p><p>“We’ve all been through far worse.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br/>
</p><p>“I’m just saying Jon-”</p><p>“And I’m just saying, Sasha, that I don’t have time to meet your friend.”</p><p>“But, Jon-”</p><p>“Sasha, I’m busy.”</p><p>“Jon, we’re all busy. But the rest of us still make time to go out and have a nice time!”</p><p>“How many times must I tell you that I’m busy?”</p><p>“Please?”</p><p>“Sasha,”</p><p>“Jon”</p><p>“If I agree to meet your friend, will you leave me to get back to my work?”</p><p>“Absolutely!”</p><p>“Fine then.”</p><p>“Great! I’ll send you on the details.”</p><p>“Sasha?”</p><p>“Yes, Jon?”</p><p>“Just. Don’t tell Tim? I know him, he’ll never leave me alone about it.”</p><p>“Sure thing, boss!”</p><p> </p><p>The office door closed securely behind her, Sasha half-flounces back to her desk in triumph.</p><p>“Pay up, Stoker!”</p><p>Tim groans as he hands over a five pound note.</p><p>Sasha grins.</p><p>“Serves you right, you should know by now that I’m Jons favourite.”</p><p> </p><p>For the record, Jon is only doing this for two reasons.</p><p>The first being that this ‘Carla Lacey’ apparently holds a vested interest in the supernatural and, according to Sasha, an interest that may align with the current focus of Jons investigation into the Cult of the Lightless Flame. Or something along those lines. For all her professional appearance and excellent research abilities, Sasha is one of those unfortunate people who seems to think that fewer letters are better while texting, so Jon had had to puzzle through some of her ‘longer’ texts regarding this Ms.Lacey. </p><p>The second was, well. He’d never admit it to anyone because it is highly unprofessional to play favourites with your employees, but if he were given a cake and told he had to split it amongst his assistants, Sasha would be given the piece with the most icing.</p><p>‘That’s an awful metaphor’ he thought to himself as he neared the meeting point.</p><p>Awful metaphors aside, he couldn’t help but be fond of his assistants. Of all of them, Sasha was certainly the most level headed, but that often meant that whatever mischief herself and Tim got up to was sure to succeed. Tim, on the other hand, seemed to thrive on chaos. Good natured chaos, yes, but chaos nonetheless. Martin…. </p><p>Well, he certainly made a good cup of tea.</p><p>“Jon? Jon Sims?”</p><p>Jon looks up to see a woman already perched in one of those uncomfortable metal chairs they put outside cafés to make them look like trendy Parisian coffee shops but in reality are always just slightly too warped or close to the road to be comfortable, and no matter the weather or time of year, the seat is covered in water.</p><p>“Yes, that’s me, so you must be-”</p><p>“Carla!” she announces, thrusting out her hand to shake his. “Carla Lacey!”</p><p>He can’t help it, he flinches back from her slightly. Physical contact has never been one of his great joys, and, as is, he’s already wound up from having to work his way through crowds of tourists and shoppers, both groups of people who seem physically incapable of walking at a reasonable pace.</p><p>‘When the guy with a limp thinks you’re walking too slowly, there’s a problem,’</p><p>Carla lets go of his hand and motions for him to go inside. </p><p>As she passes him, he can see the wet patch down the backs of her jeans from the too-small seat of the wrought iron chair.</p><p>Inside, the cafe is uncomfortably warm.</p><p>They find a vacant table and sit down, Jon taking a moment to shuck off his winter coat and unwind his thick grey scarf. Carla seems unbothered by the unpleasant warmth of the cafe, opting to keep on what looks like a cosy green peacoat. She does take off her gloves though, finding she can’t unlock her phone with them on. </p><p>After settling in a bit, they each take it in turn to watch the others belongings while they go up to order. Upon seeing the extravagant hot chocolate that Carla has in front of her, Jon feels a bit frugal with his lone cup of tea, but knows his stomach will thank him later.</p><p>“So!” starts Carla brightly. “Tell me a bit about yourself!”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>The question is out of his mouth before he can stop it.</p><p>It was the cause of the majority of arguments he’d gotten into with teachers growing up. It never boded well for a conversation.</p><p>Perhaps thankfully, Carla seems to think he was making a funny joke.</p><p>Jon blinks at her. </p><p>Perhaps this was her way of trying to break the ice? A waste of time in his opinion, but perhaps it would mean getting to the actual discussion quicker.</p><p>“Well, as I’m sure Sasha has informed you, I am the Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, and have been recently investigating several cases of arson which all seem to be linked to something called the Cult of the Lightless Flame. Sasha mentioned you also were invested in this topic?”</p><p>When he spares a quick glance up from where he’s pulled out his notebook to see Carla is staring at him, mouth slightly agape.</p><p>“Are you… unfamiliar with the details?” he probes. There were so many layers to the case, he could hardly blame her for not knowing specifics, but surely she knew that much? “I could go over them for you?”</p><p>Carla giggles a bit, her eyes darting to the side for a second before looking back at Jon. </p><p>“I mean, you could, or you could tell me something about yourself.”</p><p>Again with these questions! </p><p>“I already told you,” states Jon, more firmly this time. “I am the Head-”</p><p>“Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute,” she finishes for him. “I know where you work, but I want to know about you! What do you do for fun? Do you have any pets?”</p><p>Well, there was the Admiral, but he stayed with Georgie when they broke up. And that was almost ten years ago, the poor cat had probably long since passed away - he’d never been a young cat.</p><p>Carla is still asking questions, and it’s starting to get frustrating. Why does she want to know? What on earth does this have to do with Arthur Nolan?</p><p>The stifling heat of the cafe seems to grow in intensity, the background noise grows sharper as his frustration builds. </p><p>Jon blinks once, hard. Then again. And again. </p><p>The harsh lights overhead are only adding to the din, a layer of inescapable visual white noise.</p><p>Somewhere in the mounting chaos, Jon is vaguely aware of Carla, still chattering away, asking her relentless questions. Maybe. Individual words have lost meaning, leaving him with only the loose concept of what she meant.</p><p>Her mouth moves.</p><p>“What!” </p><p>On some level he’s aware he must be shouting, but he can barely hear himself over the noise around him. The blur that was Carla's face is twisted into a look of vague disgust. </p><p>Jon’s head is swimming.</p><p>It’s too hot, too bright. </p><p>Everything is just! </p><p>Noise!</p><p>He is aware of his hands moving, grabbing his coat and his scarf, clawing his notebook back into his pocket and then he’s gone.</p><p> </p><p>The next thing he’s fully aware of is standing in the main area of the Archives, Tims concerned face filling his vision.</p><p>“You back yet?” he asks.</p><p>“I’m-” Jon starts, and then realises where he is and drops onto the strategically placed chair Sasha had slid in behind him with a slight ‘oof’.</p><p>Tim is still watching him, looking every inch the big brother he is. Once Jon is seated, Tim drops down to his haunches.</p><p>“You back yet?” he repeats.</p><p>Jon opens his mouth to speak, stops, and then nods silently.</p><p>He can still fill the meltdown lurking around the edges of his brain, and in that moment is thankful for the frustratingly dim lighting of the Archives. In his frazzled state, it takes the edges off everything, making it easier to focus. </p><p>A door closes somewhere behind him and he starts, panic suddenly rising in his throat, senseless hysteria crashing back into him out of nowhere. </p><p>Across the room he sees his office door is open and he makes a beeline for it, knocking poor Tim over. </p><p>The door slams behind him, sealing him off from everything else. </p><p>He’s no longer hysterical, but his hands still shake as  he gingerly makes his way to his chair.</p><p>He’s hyper-aware of everything around him, the million minute sounds that normally would go unnoticed are suddenly raucous. </p><p>Jon limps over to his desk and yanks open the top drawer, and (not-so carefully avoiding impaling himself on a scissors) fishes around until he finds the small plastic packet of earplugs he keeps there.</p><p>It’s awkward with his hands shaking as they are, but he manages to put them in and the sudden lack of sound is so relaxing he is glad he sat down while he rifled around in his desk.</p><p>Indeed, now that he has earplugs in and he’s sat down in a safe space (or as safe as he gets at any given moment) he’s suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion. </p><p>After every meltdown or panic attack there’s a moment where the adrenaline wears off and your body decides ‘okay I am going to sleep Now’.</p><p>This was that moment.</p><p> </p><p>Outside his office door, Sasha is trying to calm down a very irate Carla.</p><p>“He was so bloody weird! He kept telling me that he was the Head Archivist and that he was investigating a cult! Anytime I tried to change the subject and talk about something normal, he’d give me this look like I was the crazy one!” </p><p>“I’m sorry, Carla, he must just be having a bad day-”</p><p>“Bad day? Bad day! I’m having a bad day! I’ve had bad days! I’ve never been yelled at by someone for being unprofessional on a date! A date! Sasha!”</p><p>“He can’t always help it, Carla, I’ll make sure he calls to apolog-”</p><p>“Don’t. I don’t want to have to hear from your Head-fucking-Archivist! I’m done. He’s a basket case, Sasha. I don’t know what you see in him!”</p><p>There’s a beep as Carla hangs up.</p><p>“He’s my friend,” says Sasha softly to the empty screen.</p><p> </p><p>“Jon?”</p><p>Martin pushes open the door gently, trying to avoid letting in too much light.</p><p>Jon is curled up in his chair, rocking back and forth gently but he moves his head to signify he heard.</p><p>“Do you want a cup of tea?” Martin asks. “Tim and Sasha are getting ready to go home.”</p><p>Jon opens his mouth to speak, then seems to think better of it and just nods quietly.</p><p>“Right then, I’ll be back in a sec”</p><p>Tim calls over to him as he crosses back to the kitchenette.</p><p>“He okay?”</p><p>“I think? I’m going to put the kettle on.”</p><p>“Right.” Tim seems pensieve for a moment as he shrugs into his coat. “Try and bully him into eating, yeah?”</p><p>“Will do.”</p><p> </p><p>Jon looks up when Martin reenters, tea in hand.</p><p>He uncurls from his seat, joints screaming from being curled up so long, and tries to look at least slightly less like he’s been rocking back and forth for hours.</p><p>His voice is hoarse when he mumbles out a thank you.</p><p>Martin brushes him off with a cheerful ‘no problem!’ but seems reluctant to leave.</p><p>“Martin?”</p><p>“Mhm?”</p><p>“Is there, ah, anything else you wanted to say?”</p><p>Martin looks like a deer caught in the headlights.</p><p>“Well-” he starts. “It’s just, well, Tim wants to know-”</p><p>“Tim told you to tell me to eat something because he knows I’ve not eaten anything today?”</p><p>Martin looks guilty.</p><p>Jon huffs a fond sigh.</p><p>“He has a point. Could you pass me that bag? The green one by your foot.”</p><p>Inside the bag is a lunch box containing a now-limp sandwich of the uninspiring ham and cheese nature.</p><p>Martin is still hovering.</p><p>“Was there anything else?” Jon asks.</p><p>“Nope!”</p><p>“Well, in that case feel free to go back to… whatever it is you do here after hours.” says Jon, waving his hand dismissively. “Thank you for your help, I’m quite alright now.”</p><p>“Oh. Right then. I’ll, uh, I’ll leave you to it then.”</p><p>“Thank you, Martin.”</p><p> </p><p>By the time he’s on the last dregs of his tea, the brown liquid has long since grown cold and it’s with a shudder that he swigs it down.</p><p>He picks up his now empty cup and starts disentangling himself from his work. </p><p>Picking his way across the floor of his office is a knack that Jon only seems to possess every other time, but thankfully this seems to be one of those times.</p><p>In fact, his luck seems to hold until right as he’s about to put his cup in the sink when he hears movement behind him and drops the cup in fright.</p><p>The porcelain shatters, sending white shards and drops of tea skittering across the cheap linoleum.</p><p>Jon watches the destruction for a moment and then-</p><p>“Martin!”</p><p>“Oh!” Martin at least has the decency to look guilty as he snatches up the dustpan and brush.</p><p>“Oh, Jon! I’m sorry!”</p><p>“What were you sneaking around for?”</p><p>God, Jon can feel his heart pounding out his chest.</p><p>It’s Martin's turn to look affronted.</p><p>“Well, I mean, I live here, remember?”</p><p>“Oh. Yeah. Well.”</p><p>“Well?”</p><p>Jon rolls his eyes.</p><p>“I’m sorry, you scared me.”</p><p>Martin sighs as he dumps the mess into the bin.</p><p>“Good enough.”</p><p>Martin stopped, then looked at Jon.</p><p>“What are you doing here?”</p><p>“Why? What time is it?”</p><p>Martin points at where the wall-clock smugly announces that it is, in fact, ten o’clock at night.</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>“So?”</p><p>“So?”</p><p>“You, uh, you going home then?”</p><p>“Ah, I suppose so, yes.”</p><p>“Are you alright to get home?”</p><p>Jon looks at him sharply.</p><p>“What does that mean?”</p><p>Martin huffs.</p><p>“It means you spent three hours dealing with a meltdown that was apparently so exhausting that you fell asleep. That, coupled with the fact that you are apparently so on edge that, by simply walking into the kitchen, I scared you - me!- badly enough that you dropped a mug and got bits everywhere!”</p><p>“Martin-!”</p><p>“Go home. Jon.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br/>
</p><p>“What are you sighing about, Stoker?”</p><p>Tim drapes his head backwards on his chair.</p><p>“Jon.”</p><p>Sasha nods wisely, still largely preoccupied with the doddery old printer that Elias keeps promising to replace but never seems to get around to.</p><p>“And what has Jon done now? Asked you to break into one too many flats?”</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous, Sasha, Jon would never ask me to break into someone's home.”</p><p>There’s a beat and then.</p><p>“That’s Martin’s job.”</p><p>‘There it is.’</p><p>“So if you’re not being asked to commit petty crimes, then what’s up?”</p><p>Tim sighs dramatically and throws himself forwards so his head is resting on his folded arms.</p><p>“He’s just been so uptight lately.”</p><p>“Mhm.”</p><p>“If you ask me-”</p><p>“Which I didn’t”</p><p>“-he just needs to get laid.”</p><p>“Tim!”</p><p>“What’s Tim done now?” asks Martin as he walks in.</p><p>“Oh, nothing.” Sasha says dismissively. “Just being his usual charming self.”</p><p>Martin looks vaguely confused but refrains from commenting, gathering whatever it was he was looking for and then heading back off to whatever errand Jon had him running.</p><p>“As I was saying-” Sasha turns back to Tim as he resumes his pontificating. “Maybe the guy just needs to get laid?”</p><p>“Tim!”</p><p>“You can’t say it wouldn’t help.”</p><p>“Or he could get pissed off at us interfering with his personal life again and fire us!”</p><p>“Us?” Tim’s smiling. “So you’re on board?”</p><p>Sasha says nothing as she resorts to slapping the printer on the side and begging it to print.</p><p>“Sash?”</p><p>“Huh? Oh, yeah, I guess. We both know what happens when you’re left unsupervised.”</p><p>“That was one time! And besides, it wasn’t like my hair didn’t grow back!”</p><p>Sasha rolls her eyes at him fondly.</p><p>“Very well, what’s your master plan then?”</p><p>“I’m glad you asked!” </p><p>Sasha already regrets this decision.</p><p>“I’ve a friend-”</p><p>“Other than Martin and I? I’m wounded.”</p><p>“Hush you. Anyways, I’ve a friend, very single, very interested in history.”</p><p>“So?”</p><p>“So maybe the reason Jon got confused with your Carla was that he misinterpreted her interest in the possibility of supernatural involvement in that one Buzzfeed video where the woman burst into flames as actual professional research into paranormal cases involving fire.”</p><p>“Well… I mean it’s possible?”</p><p>“And knowing Jon, he would absolutely go to work before pleasure.”</p><p>“Please never word it like that again.”</p><p>“But, if he were to arrange to go to, say a museum, to look at an exhibit that has nothing to do with weird arsonist cults or-” he shudders “-worms, it would be harder to get mixed up, surely?”</p><p>Sasha hums, considering, then slaps some more buttons on the printer.</p><p>“Fine. But fifty quid says it ends in tears.”</p><p>“I’m so sure it won’t, I’ll raise you an extra twenty when they arrange a second date.”</p><p>“You’re a confident man, Stoker.”</p><p>“You mispronounced ‘correct’ there, Sasha.”</p><p>Whatever she was about to respond with is interrupted by the printer whining theatrically before coughing out five test sheets and a smell of burnt hair.</p><p>Sasha looks close to tears.</p><p> </p><p>One phone call to his friend later and Tim is knocking on Jon’s office door.</p><p>“Knock knock!”</p><p>Jon’s voice comes through the wood, rushed and annoyed.</p><p>“Not now, Tim!”</p><p>“I just need to-”</p><p>“No. I’m busy at the moment. Leave.”</p><p>“Suit yourself.” Tim turns away from the door and mutters under his breath. “Prick.”</p><p> </p><p>“Now,” sighs Jon, turning back to Michael. “Why exactly should I believe you?”</p><p> </p><p>Tim waits until lunchtime to try again.</p><p>The weather had seemingly chosen ‘cold and wet’ and decided to stick with it for the foreseeable future, so everyone had taken to bringing lunch with them. The Archives may not be the most welcoming of places but at least it was warm and dry.</p><p>The kitchenette has a rickety old table that was just a bit too big to get out the doorway, so rather than be thrown out and replaced with one that didn’t wobble so severely it threw your mug to the floor every five seconds, they had had to keep it. It was, at the very least, big enough that four adults could sit around it without excessive elbow-bashing, so it was where they now ate lunch together.</p><p>Jon, for once, is already there when the others took their lunch, and Tim wastes no time sliding into the seat next to Jons.</p><p>“So,” he drawls. </p><p>“Tim, I’m already tired of whatever it is you’re about to say.”</p><p>“Hear me out.”</p><p>“Not like I have a choice.”</p><p>Martin snorted.</p><p>“Now, come on.” cajoles Tim. “Let me say my piece and then I’ll be on my way.”</p><p>“You have another three hours of work after this.”</p><p>“Will I ever get a chance to speak?”</p><p>“Do we ever get a chance for silence?” chirps Martin.</p><p>“Martin!” Tim clutches a hand to his breast. “I’m wounded!”</p><p>Jon opens his mouth to deliver another, no doubt scathing, retort but Sasha motions for him to be quiet.</p><p>“I’ve had to put up with this inanery all morning, the least you could do is hear him out.”</p><p>Jon heaves a truly impressive sigh and then-</p><p>“Fine. But make it quick.”</p><p>“So I have this friend-”</p><p>“Cut to the chase.”</p><p>“And I was wondering if you’d meet up with him?”</p><p>“Why would I do that?”</p><p>“Well, there’s this new exhibit in the museum and he doesn’t have anyone to go with and I know you’d be interested in it so I figure, hey, why not right? That you two could just go together?”</p><p>Jon perks up a bit at the mention of the museum.</p><p>“What kind of exhibit?”</p><p>“Something to do with those corpses they pull out of bogs and stuff.”</p><p>“Bog bodies?”</p><p>“Sounds right.”</p><p>Jon sits back a bit in his chair, considering.</p><p>“I mean you don’t have to-”</p><p>No, I’ll go.”</p><p>Tim looks like he can’t believe his ears.</p><p>“Seriously?”</p><p>“Well, like you said, it’s a fascinating piece of history, and I keep meaning to visit it but can never find time. I suppose the added pressure of a person to let down should I not go does make me far more likely to actually go.”</p><p>“So?”</p><p>Jon looks up, surprised.</p><p>“Ah, yes. Yes. Tell your friend- ah?”</p><p>“Anto”</p><p>“Yes. Tell this Anto that I will happily meet him there, though I won’t be able to do so until the weekend.”</p><p>“Will do, bossman!”</p><p>Tim starts to get up, pulling his phone out of his back pocket as he does so.</p><p>“Oh, Tim?”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>Jon shifts, unsure as to how to phrase this question before seemingly making up his mind.</p><p>“Just make sure he isn’t as nosy at that Lacey woman. I most certainly do not want to have to deal with another round of twenty questions while trying to enjoy a museum.”</p><p>“Sure thing, boss.”</p><p> </p><p>Saturday comes, as dull and dreary as the rest of november, and sees one Jonathan Sims entering the London Science Museum.</p><p>His coat is soaking wet, but thankfully the jumper he wore underneath was dry.</p><p>(Tim had jokingly offered to come along, but Jon had shut that down straight away. </p><p>"What do you think will happen? That I'll get, what? Kidnapped? Who on earth would want to kidnap me of all people?") </p><p>Cursing his wet hair, Jon looks around for this ‘Anto’ fellow that Tim had described.</p><p>It’s not terribly hard, asides from the person at the desk, he seems to be the only other person there.</p><p>He spots him leaning against a pillar, staring wistfully at the portrait of the museum's founder, one ‘Bennet Woodcroft’ hanging up on the wall. </p><p>Anto seems completely unlike Tim.</p><p>Where Tim has his hair neatly styled in an undercut, Anto has short, shaggy hair, the top half tied back off his face in a similar manner to Jons own, longer hair. Jon is surprised at how much care Anto seems to have put into his clothing, though Tim is always dressed, though not what one would call ‘smartly’, then at least what could be described as ‘office casual’ so maybe it’s just a shared habit of dressing nicely.</p><p> </p><p>When Tim told him to look out for a guy who looks, quote ‘like he hasn’t slept in a week and is going to make it your problem’, Anto hadn’t been sure how much of it was a joke. It wouldn’t be the first time Tim had exaggerated someones appearance for the sake of a good story, but this Jonathan guy (“Call him Jon”) really did look like textbook exhaustion.</p><p>How much of that could be attributed to the fact he had seemingly swum to the museum, Anto couldn’t be sure. </p><p>Still, his mother had raised him not to judge based off of appearances, and Tim spoke highly enough of him that he was more than willing to give this guy a go. </p><p> </p><p>The actual exhibit is down the far end of the museum, so they’ll have to walk the entire length of the museum to get there. Thankfully, the usual Saturday afternoon crush of tourists and families with young children seems to be absent, probably dissuaded by the driving rain. Still, it makes for a pleasant change, though the echo of their footsteps does seem rather eerie at times.</p><p>“What I can never understand,” jokes Anto cheerfully. “Is why the exact same distance inside a museum feels so much further than it does outside.”</p><p>“Well,” Jon begins. “I believe it’s to do with the idea of liminal spaces and the idea that one typically doesn’t have a fixed conception of the layout of rooms and corridors inside museums. Indeed, many museums are full of smaller side-rooms so that they can better section off exhibits and the like. This can lead to a museum, even though it may only be, say fifty metres squared, feeling far larger than it actually is because one cannot simply walk in a direct line from one side to the other.”</p><p>“Huh. I just kind of figured it was to do with having to stop every few steps to read a sign or let a crowd pass.”</p><p>Jon laughs a bit.</p><p>“I suppose that probably doesn’t help.”</p><p>“I do quite like visiting museums,” remarks Anto. “I must admit a particular fondness for these big old ones, with the posh marble everywhere. You?”</p><p>“Well, I can’t help but find it  frustrating that so many of London's museums are in old buildings and are so inaccessible for people with disabilities.”</p><p>Anto nodded consideringly.</p><p>“I suppose there’s only so much to be done with old buildings, there are, after all, limits on how much of the architecture can be altered.”</p><p>Jon nods along until he is finished speaking, and then launches into a reasonably civil tirade about all the many ways museums aren’t accessible, such as slippery floors, narrow aisles between displays, lack of audio format because the low lighting is impossible for people with poor eyesight or reading difficulties to read the plaques - ‘and besides, none of the maps ever really make sense’</p><p>He stops for breath and Anto jumps in with a comment about how ‘well, at least they have wheelchair lifts?’</p><p>“Yes!” continues Jon. “Except actually finding a staff member with the key to the lift is impossible and! Once you actually get off the lift on whatever floor, god forbid there be an emergency or fire because you have no way to get back down unless you’re either carried or you happen, by pure chance, to find another employee with a key to the lift! It’s ridiculous!”</p><p>Rant done, he pants slightly, stopping walking for a moment to catch his breath.</p><p>“Guess you come to this museum a lot then?”</p><p>“No, once you’ve used a cane in one museum, you’ve used a cane in every museum.”</p><p> </p><p>So Jon is… a lot.</p><p>Tim had told him that the guy could get ‘intense about the weirdest stuff’, and that it was remarkably easy to set him off on a rant. It was part of why Anto had tried to avoid talking about topics that could set off rants and yet somehow he’d managed to stumble across one.</p><p>There was also the case that Tim had somehow neglected to mention how attractive Jon was when he went off on something.</p><p>As he’d spoken, he’d reached up to tie his damp hair into a messy bun at the top of his head and Anto find himself slightly mesmerised by the sight. </p><p> </p><p>By the time they reach their destination, Jons hair has dried off and his annoyance has abated.</p><p>The bog bodies lay behind the plexiglass tubes, contorted in the various positions they died in.</p><p>Jon leans over to examine the information stand on one particular body, and is about to read it off to Anto when the other man starts talking.</p><p>“I always find it so sad.”</p><p>“Sad?”</p><p>Anto gestures loosely to the body.</p><p>“None of these people died peacefully, y’know? Like. None. They weren't deliberately buried. They didn’t pass away from illness or old age. So many of them were either murdered or sacrificed. Those who escaped death at the hands of another were probably people who got lost and took one wrong step too many. Those are the ones who just-” he breaks off, clasping his hands over his chest. “They just break my heart. Death is terrifying as is, I couldn’t imagine dying like that. Lost. Alone.”</p><p>Jon wants to interrupt, but something stops him.</p><p>“Their families never found them either. The ground stole them and left their families to grieve and mourn and wonder if their loved one was ever coming back. Their families died never knowing what happened to them, if they were living or dead. Doesn’t that just make you want to cry?”</p><p>The urge to redirect the conversation rises up but Jon squashes it down. It doesn’t feel right to change the subject so abruptly after something so emotional. Instead he just waits, gazing down at the twisted brown form of the Tollund Man.</p><p>The peace is disturbed by the sudden harsh buzzing of Jons phone as it vibrates in his pocket to notify him of an incoming call.</p><p>He pulls it out to see that it’s Martin calling him. </p><p>He’s about to reject the call - he’s not completely socially inept after all - but reconsiders.</p><p>After all, the last time he missed a call from Martin, it wound up with the poor man trapped in his flat for two weeks by a living worm-hive creature.</p><p>“I’m so sorry,” he apologises. “I really must take this.”</p><p>Anto waves him off.</p><p>Jon nods and answers the call.</p><p>“Martin?”</p><p>“Jon! Jon!”</p><p>“What is it?”</p><p>“Jon! I- I was in the office because I was looking for something I’d left on my desk and I couldn’t find it and then I looked up and-!”</p><p>“Get to the point, Martin!”</p><p>“There’s a new door in the Archives.”</p><p>The terror in Martins voice is genuine, and so too is the threat.</p><p>“I’m on my way. Stay right where you are- do not! I repeat, do not go through any doors!”</p><p>“Please, hurry.”</p><p>He hangs up and turns to Anto.</p><p>“I-”</p><p>“Go,” he says. “By the sounds of it, you’re needed elsewhere. I don’t mind. Tell Tim I said hi.”</p><p>Jon nods and turns on his heel, making a beeline for the exit.</p><p> </p><p>“Martin?”</p><p>No answer. </p><p>“Martin!”</p><p>A quick look around the office shows no sign of Martin, but also no sign of any out-of-place doors.</p><p>A noise from the filing room draws his attention.</p><p>Picking up the hefty tape-dispenser Sasha keeps on her desk, Jon approaches warily.</p><p>“Martin?”</p><p>He pushes open the door gently.</p><p>There in the corner, curled up on his cot bed is one terrified Martin Blackwood.</p><p>“Jon!”</p><p>“Martin.” </p><p>The relief that washes over him is palpable.</p><p>Habit makes him want to make some cutting remark about how the corkscrew Martin is clutching really wouldn’t be any help against Michael, but decides against it.</p><p>“Martin,” he opts for a calming tone. “Are you alright? The door is gone.”</p><p>Martins breath leaves him in one big whoosh, his whole body visibly sagging with relief.</p><p>“Just- just after what you and Sasha said about that Michael guy and then the doors and then I’m all on my own down here and really I was surprised the call even went through because it’s not like underground is the pinnacle of telephone reception, you know? And I tried calling Sasha but the call didn’t go through and then Tim didn’t pick up and I didn’t want to bother you because you had your date thing today but then you did and I could have cried-”</p><p>“Martin.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Are you alright now?”</p><p>Martin heaved in a deep breath and then-</p><p>“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good now.”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>“Tea?”</p><p>“Definitely.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><br/>
</p><p>At this point, Tim is sure they’re jinxed.</p><p>Not in the general ‘there is definitely something paranormal about the Archives that means our lives are constantly in danger’ kind of way- they all already knew that by now - but rather that every (read: both) time so far that they’d tried to set Jon up on a date, either it had gone awfully or Martin had had a freak encounter with a door and Jon had rushed back to save the day.</p><p>Sasha had suggested that, maybe, it just wasn’t meant to be and that Jon would, if he wished, find someone in his own time. </p><p>She said this in that pointed way that meant they both knew she was right, but Tim, being Tim, didn’t want to admit that.</p><p>Still-</p><p>“Okay how about this: third time's the charm and - if not - then we’ll leave him be.”</p><p>“Deal.”</p><p> </p><p>They opt for a ‘subtler’ approach this time, asking Jon casual questions and then matching his answer to the short list of candidates they’d compiled.</p><p>The whole thing had a similar air to a reality TV dating show, only one where the bachelor didn’t even know he was taking part.</p><p>Some question landed better than others, things like habits he hated (though that one did land Tim in a half-hour lecture on correct stapling procedures.</p><p>“What do you look for in a partner?”</p><p>Was met with: “What? Like, a research partner?”</p><p>To which a thoroughly astounded Tim asked him how he hadn’t walked into traffic yet.</p><p>“I did once.” hummed Jon absently.</p><p>“How?”</p><p>Then thoroughly sidetracked, Tim had listened as Jon detailed how he had been walking to the shops one day and seen a cat prowling around the bins on the other side and had started to walk directly towards it immediately simply because he wanted to pet it.</p><p>In the end, they just gave up and picked a name from the list at random, one ‘Alex [Surname]’ that Sasha had worked with at a previous job.</p><p>They probably could have put more thought into it, this ‘Alex’ person was chosen on the sole factor that in the ‘about’ section of their Facebook page (“I can’t believe you still use Facebook” “Shut up, Tim”) it listed them as ‘single’. Sasha herself hadn't spoken to them properly beyond the mutual annual ‘happy birthday’ messages in years, so whether or not they’d even agree to a date was hit or miss.</p><p> </p><p>Asking Jon to meet with them would be a whole other ordeal.</p><p>The betting pool on whether or not the date would be successful or would end in tears had grown to £100, and now included Rosie from the front desk.</p><p>Sasha had had moderately more successful conversation than Tim and the cat anecdote.</p><p>She had simply turned to Jon at lunch one day and asked if he was seeing anyone, to which Jon had asked ‘what? Like a therapist?’ and she had had to sigh and explain no, Jon, like romantically.</p><p>Jon had gotten as far as ‘no-’ when Martin stuck his head around the doorframe and said Elias was on<br/>
the phone looking to talk to Jon immediately, granting him a quick escape.</p><p>Martin waits until Jon is sequestered in his office before asking what they’d been talking about.</p><p>“Well-” begins Sasha. </p><p>“We’re trying to get Jon laid!” announces Tim happily.</p><p>Martin chokes.</p><p>“I’m not wrong.”</p><p>“No,” amends Sasha. “But you could have been more polite about it.”</p><p>Tim shoots finger guns at her as he exits, heading to the bathroom.</p><p>Once he’s gone, Martin shoots a quizzical look at Sasha and she sets down her lunch to explain that ‘our goal isn’t to-’here she uses exaggerated air quotes ‘-”get him laid”, we just think it would be good for him to have someone outside this mess to talk to about everything, or at least a reason to remember to go home and take time to himself and everything.’</p><p>“Don’t you think that’s a bad idea?”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“Well.” Martin holds up his fingers, ticking them off as he speaks. “First off, Jon makes no secret of the fact that he doesn’t like meeting new people, especially outside of a controlled professional environment. Secondly, for all the time the four of spend together, we don’t actually know that much about each other - for example, how many siblings have I?”</p><p>“Two younger?”</p><p>“I’m an only child, Sasha.”</p><p>She holds her hands up in defeat.</p><p>“Thirdly, kind of a part two to the last one, Jon hates having his personal space crowded in on. And finally, you don’t even know if Jon likes anyone. He has never shown the slightest interest in romance, be it his own life or someone else's.”</p><p>There’s a beat and then-</p><p>“And! Fifth thing! It’s just flat out rude to assume Jon is entirely incapable of finding someone he likes himself! I’m sure that if he were looking to find someone to settle down and he wanted help he’d ask for it. Going behind his back like this is insulting to his intelligence and you need to tell him outright what you’re doing instead of tricking him into doing things like a child!”</p><p>Sasha looks baldly impressed.</p><p>“Didn’t realise you cared so much about Jon.” she remarks.</p><p>“Yeah, well, I do.” Martin seems to realise what he’s said and amends it by adding on “I care about all of you. You’re my friends, why wouldn’t I?”</p><p>“Martin!”</p><p>Sasha feels, well, rather touched by this. They’d all grown closer since the Prentiss attack - shared trauma will do that to you - but it was unusual to hear it so explicitly mentioned.</p><p> </p><p>That evening, when everyone is packing up to go home, Sasha bites the bullet and asks Jon if he’d be interested in a date.</p><p>“I’m flattered, Sasha, but I hardly think that’s appropriate-”</p><p>“Oh! No! Not with me!”</p><p>Jon looks like he can’t tell whether to be insulted or relieved.</p><p>“No, I just mean it in the sense that, uh…”</p><p>She trails off, suddenly unsure of herself.</p><p>“Do you want to start that one again?” he asks.</p><p>“Right. Yeah.”</p><p>Deep breath.</p><p>“I think it would be healthy if you got out for a bit and I was wondering if you’d join my friend, Alex, on a date this weekend. You can say no, but just know that if you do, Tim won’t leave you alone about it for a month. You don’t have to enjoy yourself, you don’t even have to pretend to enjoy it, you don’t even have to make shapes about calling them after - if you don’t want to. Just-”</p><p>She stops for air.</p><p>“Just give it a go? And then if you don’t enjoy it you tell me you told me so and I’ll make it up to you somehow.”</p><p>“Sasha.”</p><p>“Yeah?” </p><p>“If I agree, will you let me leave?”</p><p>Sasha steps away from where she was unknowingly blocking the door.</p><p>A deep sigh and then </p><p>“Fine. I’ll go.”</p><p>She claps her hands together once, delighted. </p><p>"Right! - Oh and one more thing." </p><p>"Sasha…" </p><p>"Would you be up for coming out with us this evening? All four of us together? We were thinking about going for drinks so we can just complain about, y'know, work and stuff." </p><p>"You can just say Elias, I don't mind." </p><p>"So you'll come?" she laughs. </p><p>Jon briefly weighs the pros and cons. When the only con he can conceivably come up with is his own dislike of socialising - something he knows he wouldn't get away with using as an excuse - he nods. </p><p>"Cool! I'll send you on the the details? It's nothing fancy, like, at all, just drinks." </p><p> </p><p>Later, at his flat, Jon only slightly regrets agreeing to go. </p><p>The last time he'd been 'out' had been the semi-mandatory annual event that the Institute holds to attract sponsors and presumably other things as well. As the head of his department, Jon had been expected to attend, and no amount of wriggling would get him out of it. </p><p>Indeed, the more uncomfortable he had seemed the more effort Elias had put into making sure he was included in every discussion, no matter how unrelated it was to Jon's actual field. That there exist people who can make even the most fascinating topics so utterly mind-numbingly painfully dull, never ceases to amaze him. </p><p>Hopefully this evening will hold greater promise. </p><p>He does take some comfort in the location Sasha sends him, a casual little pub some ways from where he lives. The time in between agreeing to go, and Sasha sending him the location had been spent fretting over the idea of being crammed into a loud dark bar and having to stay balanced on one of those stools that are always just that bit too high - and god but there are so many doors in those kinds of places and Michael hadn't been shy about telling him exactly how many people wanted (needed) the Archivist dead. </p><p>So when he looked it up and saw that it was just a normal pub, he'd been relieved to no end. </p><p>In this exact moment, he's trying to work out what to wear. </p><p>It's a silly worry, childish even, but he can't help but worry about how he should dress. He doesn't know about the others, but he knows that no matter what, he always looks a little shabby next to Tim. </p><p>'Jonathan Sims,' he thinks to himself sternly. 'You are thirty years old. You are above worrying about what your friends will think about your clothing.' </p><p>Because it's not that he can't dress 'nicely', it's just that Sasha is always neatly turned out and Martin looks good in anything (no matter how shapeless or oddly patterned his jumpers). </p><p>There is also the unavoidable fact that Jon has, on more than one occasion, been approached on the street and asked if he's 'okay?' in that 'special' tone of voice reserved for the elderly and infirm. </p><p>His favourite skirt is eyeing him from the corner, but Jon doesn't even have to look outside to hear the wind roaring down the street so he simply opts for a slightly nicer version of what he wears to work and pulls half his hair up into a bun, leaving the rest to hang loose around his shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>By the time Jon reaches the pub he is beyond glad he didn't wear that skirt. It was difficult enough trying to keep his scarf around his neck and his hair out of his eyes without also having to deal  with his skirt blowing about and tripping him up. </p><p>Tim, bless him, is waiting by the doorway. </p><p>"Alright, boss?" he asks. </p><p>Jon grimaces. </p><p>"Please don't call me that tonight." </p><p>"Sure thing, bo- Jon." </p><p>With that, Tim turns and leads him to where Martin and Sasha are already sat at a table, locked in a seemingly heated 'Star Wars versus Star Trek' debate, with Martin passionately championing Star Trek and Sasha fighting (in Jons opinion) a losing battle for Star Wars. </p><p>As they join them, Sasha turns to face them. </p><p>"This is a highly serious debate." she begins in lieu of a proper greeting. "Martin thinks Star Trek is objectively better than Star Wars. I think he's objectively wrong." </p><p>"She is objectively wrong!" splutters Martin. </p><p>"You are wrong, Sasha" agrees Jon.</p><p>She seems lost for words for a moment, Tim watching gleefully. </p><p>Finally, Sasha finds her words. </p><p>"Jonathan Archivist Sims-" </p><p>"Do you really think my middle name is 'Archivist'" </p><p>"Hush. The fact that you, whom I thought to be a man of good taste, is so foolish as to genuinely think that Star Trek is better than the cultural juggernaut that is Star Wars astounds me." </p><p>"Well," he begins. "I don't know about you, but personally I prefer my media without incest." </p><p>"They didn't know they were siblings!"</p><p>"Yeah, that really doesn't matter." Martin chimes in. "If you were born a twin and your parents never told you and then you meet this cute guy and you start getting to know him and you kiss him and then you find out he's your long-lost twin brother - would that not be weird?" </p><p>"But I wouldn't kiss my brother -" </p><p>"But you wouldn't know-" </p><p>Leaving the pair to their debate (read: argument), Jon turns to face Tim. </p><p>"How long have they been like this?" </p><p>"Well, they actually started talking about this on Tuesday-" </p><p>"They've been at this for four days?" </p><p>"At least." </p><p>"How did it even start?" </p><p>"Sasha mentioned that one of the Star War films was going to be on that evening, Martin said he had seen it before and not liked it." Tim holds up one hand. "Shit-" he holds up the other. "Fan." </p><p>He clasps his hands together and Jon feels a smile tugging at his face. </p><p>"And tell me, good sir, where do you stand on this matter?" </p><p>Tim waves a hand dismissively. </p><p>"I've seen all the Star War films at least once - technically, I slept through three of them without noticing - and, well," he shrugs. "What can I say? Ryker can get it and Dax owns my heart." </p><p>"Deep Space or Voyager?" </p><p>"Characters of Deep Space, storylines of Voyager." </p><p>Jon nods thoughtfully. </p><p>Hard to argue with that, though he'd always had a soft spot for O'Reilly that had firmly cemented the original series as number one in his heart. </p><p> </p><p>Star Trek-related arguments aside, the night goes pretty well. Jon, mindful of having to walk home later, sticks to switching out his drinks with water every now and again. </p><p>(Tim makes a smart comment about this only for Jon to snap back ‘Yes, well, some of us only have one working leg to stagger home on, Stoker!’. This prompted a rather undignified noise from Martin which Jon ignored.)</p><p>He’s sitting watching Sasha and Martin as they return to their heated argument about which space-themed franchise is better when he [grows aware] of a strange contentment in his chest.</p><p>It’s… nice, he realises. </p><p>It’s nice, being out with his friends like this (because they are his friends) and not having to worry about doors or worms or weird cults.</p><p>That said, some part of him muses at the idea of being warm and comfortable as a novel experience does not bode well for his mental state, but he just shoves that voice down and laughs at Tims joke.</p><p> </p><p>The night is going great, right up until the conversation swings inevitably back to romance.</p><p>It starts innocently enough, Tim and Sasha gossiping about some apparent scandal between the library staff where apparently someone had been found out to be sleeping with someone else, but that someone else was in fact married but their spouse (who worked in Artefact Storage) had been eaten by that armchair last year, which raised the question of whether or not it’s adultery if the spouse is deceased.</p><p>It’s all rather inane, but it gives Jon an excuse to take a break from the conversation.</p><p>At one point, he spares a glance at Martin, to see the other man is zoned out, gazing vaguely at the space between Tim and Sasha, eyes glazed over. He nods at the right moments and makes the correct noises of approval or dissatisfaction, but if you actually were to look at him, it was clear he was paying even less attention to the discussion than Jon.</p><p>At some point, the conversation shifts to a rather unfortunate date Tim had had with someone who had wound up making a rather unforgivable comment about trans women and bathrooms. Tim, being as he is a decent human being with a functioning brain, had simply stood up and left.</p><p>Jon, who had been paying marginally more attention during this anecdote, nods and chimes in with a ‘rightly so’ that swings Tims attention back to him.</p><p>“So!” he starts cheerily.</p><p>“Oh god.” mutters Jon, already regretting this.</p><p>“Looking forwards to your date tomorrow?”</p><p>Jon shoots a betrayed look at Sasha, who holds her hands up in defeat.</p><p>“Tim,” he states curtly. “This is inappropriate-”</p><p>“-for the workplace,” Tim sighs. “Yeah, but we’re not in the workplace, are we? Small mercies it is.”</p><p>He mutters that last part as he brings up his glass to take a swig.</p><p>“Tim,” repeats Jon. “I do not think this is-”</p><p>Tim gasps in mock offense, cutting him off. </p><p>“And here I thought we were such good friends!” </p><p>He fakes a swoon against Sasha’s shoulder only for her to shove him off good-naturedly.</p><p>“After I saved your life when Prentiss attacked-!”</p><p>“Ah, yes.” quips Jon. “Nothing like having your coworker expose himself to you while delirious from carbon-dioxide gas to really cement your friendship.”</p><p>“Exactly! I showed you myself at my most vulnerable! We’re practically bosom-buddies!”</p><p>Everyone else at the table collectively grimaces.</p><p>“Please never say ‘bosom’ again.” asks Sasha. “I beg you.”</p><p>Tim rolls his eyes dramatically.</p><p>“Jonathan Archivist Sims-”</p><p>“Again, my middle name isn’t Archivist it’s-”</p><p>“You really ought to give a master class in avoiding questions.” </p><p>Tim points semi-accusingly at him.</p><p>“Are you, or are you not, looking forwards to tomorrow?”</p><p>Jon suppresses the urge to roll his eyes.</p><p>“Yes, Tim. I am looking forwards to it. Happy?”</p><p>Tim holds up his hands in mock defeat.</p><p>“I’m just saying,” he relents. “That the longest I’ve gone without was those two months after the worms and it was hell, so I can’t imagine you’re doing great-”</p><p>“Tim!”</p><p>Jon shifts uncomfortably in his chair.</p><p>“I, ah- well. I guess… I just…ah, don’t?”</p><p>Realisation dawns on Tims face.</p><p>“Oh, yeah, my bad, I forgot that.”</p><p>There's a moment of unsure silence before Martin stands, announcing his intention to get the next round, would anyone like anything? </p><p>Jon waves him off, something which Tim is quick to make a joke out of, something to the effect of the older man being a lightweight. </p><p>In response to this, Jon pointed rather accusingly at Tim. </p><p>"You listen here, Mister Stoker. I could drink you under the table any day, but fortunately for you, some of us only have  one leg to stagger home on." </p><p> </p><p>The night moves on and the conversation bounces between topics seemingly at random. </p><p> </p><p>At one point, the topic of homebrewing comes up, prompting Jon to sit back in his chair as he recounted the time he'd tried to set up a still in his college dorm, a venture which most certainly did not, in fact, lead to a leak slowly rotting out the floor that did not, in fact, cause said floor to fall through to the common room below. </p><p>He's finishing his anecdote with what could almost be called a flourish when Tim scrapes his jaw off the floor long enough to interject with "you mean to tell me, Mister 'No Smiling In The Workplace' Sims broke -" he gasps "-a rule?". </p><p>Jon simply covers his smirk as he takes a drink. </p><p>"I genuinely cannot see you breaking the law," splutters Martin. </p><p>"Martin." </p><p>Jon rolls his eyes. </p><p>"Martin, you do realise that breaking and entering is a crime, right?" </p><p>"Yeah, but you weren't the one doing it-" </p><p>"I'm pretty that either makes him an accessory or an instigator, Martin" points out Sasha. </p><p> </p><p>It's not until things are starting to wind down that Sasha clears her throat. </p><p>"So, Jon-" </p><p>"No." </p><p>"Jon-" </p><p>"Sasha," says Jon dryly. "I can guarantee you, the answer is no." </p><p>"Okay but how's this?" she offers. "You set the time and place, and if you don't like them, you never have to see them again. You don't have to enjoy yourself, don't even have to pretend to enjoy yourself if you really don't, but just - just show up? And then if it sucks you can say you told me so and we'll never try anything like this ever again and you can be alone with your tape recorder forever just-"</p><p>"Fine."</p><p>Sasha beams. </p><p>The bargain struck and his fate sealed, Jon slumps back in his seat.</p><p>Tim shoots him a look, briefly assessing the situation. </p><p>"You done for the night, bossman?" </p><p>Jon nods. </p><p>Martin checks the time on his phone and then picks up his coat. </p><p>"Yeah, I think I'm just about ready to get home as well" </p><p>He stands too quickly as he says this and the momentary headrush leaving him dizzy, causing him to stagger slightly. </p><p>Tim makes a quip about Martin having had too much to drink, a comment that gets a self conscious half-laugh out of Martin. </p><p>Jon is next to stand, but as he does so his bad leg, which had been virtually motionless for the last few hours, seizes suddenly and he stumbles over it, grabbing onto the nearest sturdy object. </p><p>His support makes an odd squeaking noise and he looks up to see a scarlet-faced Martin. </p><p>"Oh, ah, apologies, Martin." </p><p>Jon takes a moment to stretch his tired joint out, bending and straightening his knee once or twice before letting go of his death grip on Martins sleeve. </p><p> </p><p>Once their merry band has gathered their belongings and set up their tab, they linger in the doorway, none of them quite wanting to step out into what had built itself up to being a truly impressive winter storm. </p><p>Jon is half-listening to the others make small talk, distracted as he is by the way the cold is making his leg seize up again. </p><p>Martin notices, because of course he does, and looks concerned. </p><p>"Will you be alright to get home?" </p><p>Jon is on the defensive before he can stop himself. </p><p>"Contrary to what you may think, Martin, I am not some helpless little lamb" </p><p>"Jon!" barks Sasha. "There's no need for that, we were having a lovely evening, now don't spoil it by being-" </p><p>"-by being me?" </p><p>"I didn't say that" </p><p>Martin holds up his hands. </p><p>For such a big guy, it's either impressive or heartbreaking how small he can make himself seem in an instant. </p><p>"I was only asking."</p><p>He looks so genuinely put down that Jon takes pity on him. </p><p>"I'll be fine, Martin. Where I live it's only about an hours walk - for me, at least." </p><p>"Jon, you can't be serious!" </p><p>Martin gestures in the generic direction of the outside world. </p><p>"You're in pain, the weather is absolutely godawful, and now you say you'll be out in this for, what? At least an hour?" </p><p>"If I may add" </p><p>Jon doesn't even spare Tim a glance when he says "You may not, but that won't stop you." </p><p>"Too right it won't," Tim grins. "I happen to know that a sick Jon is a miserable Jon - far more so than normal - and that, while you, dearest Jonny-" </p><p>"-never call me that, ever again." </p><p>"-live about an hour away, our dear Martin over here, is a mere fifteen minutes walk." </p><p>Martin seems thrown but latches onto the idea quickly. </p><p>"Absolutely, my place is always open to, uh, well. To humans, at least." </p><p>Sasha has grown tired of this by now and moves through them, flinching as she leaves the shelter of the doorway and the full force of the gale slams into her. </p><p>"If you lot ever finish going around in circles, I'll see ye on Monday!" </p><p>The last bit is bellowed over her shoulder as she dashes off, the wind snatching bits of her words.</p><p>Tim is next to square up against the tempest. </p><p>"As much as I know it breaks your hearts to be without me, I'm not one to third wheel." </p><p>He shoots them a pair of cheesy finger-guns and hurries off, propelled by the gale and his own long stride. </p><p>Within moments he's almost impossible to see, obscured by the rain and the driving darkness, and then he turns a corner and is lost to them completely. </p><p>The remaining pair exchange a glance and then brace their own selves to leave. </p><p> </p><p>The walk to Martins new, worm-free flat is a tough one, and not for the the first time Jon is glad of his small size. </p><p>Though on any normal day Jon could be sure to outpace him, now hampered by the storm and the fact that he didn't know how to get to where they were going, he'd let Martin take the lead. </p><p>Doing so had had the added benefit of the larger man creating a sort of slip-stream for Jon, a pocket of space where the wind, though still bitterly cold, didn't have the same ferocity as it would were he to be on his own. </p><p>The flat itself seems nice enough, though nothing spectacular on the outside.</p><p>They're so cold by this point that even Martin, who tends normally not even feel the cold until he looks down and realises he's shaking, is having difficulty keying in the code for the door. </p><p> </p><p>The silence of the lobby is a different kind of deafening to the storm. </p><p>Rather the kind of deafening that has Jon questioning every decision he's ever made and how they come down to him having, what? </p><p>A sleepover? </p><p>He's thirty, for Gods sake, you don't have sleepovers in your thirties. </p><p>Granted, he also never had sleepovers when he was of a more 'appropriate' age to do so. </p><p>Typically in order to have sleepovers, one needs friends to have them with. </p><p> </p><p>Martins flat is actually quite nice. </p><p>Given the, ah, circumstances that prompted his move, the Institute had aided him in finding somewhere where a sentient worn queen would, at the very least, have difficulty getting through the doors. </p><p>Of course, the second they're inside, Martin is over and fussing with the kettle, setting about to make tea and instructing Jon to leave his wet things on the armchair.</p><p>Having done so, Jon sits himself by the little table, propping his aching leg up on another chair, rubbing and massaging it more out of  habit than of a conscious desire to do so. </p><p>It feels… nice, being here with Martin. </p><p>There's none of the chaotic noise of the Institute, and the white noise of the storm drowns out any remaining city chatter. </p><p>There's a familiarity to watching Martin make tea, the reminder of a well-worn routine settling something in Jon's bones. </p><p>In fact, he's so relaxed that it's not until they're both sat with their steaming mugs that he even thinks about sleeping arrangements. </p><p>Martin seems to come to the same conclusion. </p><p>"If you want you can have my bed-" </p><p>"Oh no, it's fine, really I'll just sleep on the couch-" </p><p>"No, really, I don't mind the couch, it's comfier than my cot in the Archives ever was-" </p><p>"Martin." </p><p>"Jon."</p><p>They lock eyes for a moment, Jon fighting down the irrational compulsion to scream at the idea of making eye-contact but he manages it, Martin breaking away first.</p><p> </p><p>Jon excuses himself to use the bathroom while Martin sets about pulling out the spare duvet and cursing himself for not choosing a flat with a guest room. </p><p>Still, he supposes, for where he's located this place was not to be sniffed at, and he was so desperate to be out of the Archives and not surrounded by stacks of creepy statements and weird shadows that never really matched what cast them and, obviously it was just his paranoia but even when he knew he was alone (especially when he knew he was alone) he could never shake the feeling of being watched. </p><p>Still, even with all that, it was nice to be able to greet everyone as they came in in the morning. </p><p>He's just putting a clean case on the pillow when Jon re-emerges from the bathroom. </p><p>He'd taken his binder off, but he was still in the shirt he'd worn out, the ends of his damp hair only adding to the overall bedraggled look. </p><p>Martin is offering him a  spare t-shirt before he even registers it. </p><p>Jon looks taken aback by the offer, but accepts it. </p><p>Martin allows himself a moment to freak out as he rifles through his drawers for a t-shirt that's comfortable enough to sleep in without being raggedy.</p><p>He manages not to scream as he pulls out a soft green one with a generic logo across the chest, just like how he manages not to faint when he hands it to Jon and feels their hands brush against each other. </p><p>If Jon notices, he doesn't comment.</p><p>Martin opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it. </p><p>"I'll leave you to it, then?" </p><p>Did he mean to phrase that like a question? Who knows at this point. </p><p>"Goodnight, Martin," says Jon kindly. "And-" he holds up the t-shirt "- thank you." </p><p>To his credit, Martin manages a reasonably normal response as well as managing to get all the way behind his closed bedroom door before doubling over in a silent scream. </p><p> </p><p>Jon awakes the next morning to an unfamiliar flat, and has a moments panic before remembering the events of last night. </p><p>The storm seems to have blown itself out, and weak winter sunlight is poking thin fingers through the gaps in the curtains. </p><p>Jon waits for the usual early morning rush of crippling anxiety and stress but finds it curiously lacking. </p><p>He's… content.</p><p>Martins flat isn't obnoxiously bright, but whatever angle the sun is hitting the building at means the sitting room area has enough light to see by without Jon being blinded. </p><p>It's at this point he reaches over to the low coffee table to scrabble for his glasses. </p><p>In his fumbling, he knocks over a picture frame. </p><p>He finches at the resulting clatter, eyes darting to Martins closed bedroom door. </p><p>Thankfully, there doesn't seem to be any reaction and he pulls on his glasses, looking more closely at the picture he'd knocked. </p><p>It seems to be a photo from his surprise 'birthday party' last year. </p><p>It's odd, seeing everyone scar-free and happy. </p><p>With the exception of Elias, it seems no one in that photo had escaped unscathed - mentally or physically. </p><p>He hadn't even noticed the picture being taken, and, indeed, his younger self seems more preoccupied with where Sasha and Martin were leaning on his chair than with the camera. </p><p>(Though if Jon recalls correctly, it was less of a camera and more Tim with one of those obnoxious 'selfie-sticks'.) </p><p>It's amazing how much smug energy Elias Bouchard can transmit through a photo, and looking at him now, Jon cannot help but wonder if he somehow… knew… what was about to befall them.</p><p> If there had have been some way any of this could have been prevented. </p><p>He's interrupted from his musings by the soft 'click' of a door being closed and he looks up to see Martin. </p><p> </p><p>There had been a blissful moment between waking and remembering wherein one Martin Blackwood had been utterly relaxed. </p><p>Then he'd remembered the man he had been not-so-secretly pining over for months (and, more importantly, his boss) was presently asleep on his couch. </p><p>Martin had been very generous, and, as it was Saturday, he had thus allowed himself an entire ten minutes with which to regret his entire life choices. </p><p>Still, he couldn't mope about in bed all day, he had a guest to feed. </p><p>Years of living with his mother meant he was adept at moving through a house silently. </p><p>Still, he hadn't expected Jon to already be awake and squinting at a picture frame in his hand. </p><p>There's a moment where Martins heart does a funny flip-flop in his chest as he stares softly at Jon on his couch, swimming in one of Martins t-shirts that were two sizes too big for Martin himself, never mind Jon. </p><p>He looks so small in that moment, so defenceless, that it makes Martin want to wrap him up in that duvet and tuck him away where he could never be hurt again.</p><p>The door closes behind him with a soft 'click' and the spell is broken.</p><p>Jon jumps at the sound and puts the picture frame back down on the table hurriedly, as if he'd been caught doing something wrong. </p><p>"Sorry," he looks sheepish. "I didn't mean to pry." </p><p>Martin spares the picture a glance as he walks around the couch to the kitchen. </p><p>"I mean, you are in the picture, and it is a picture of your birthday." </p><p>He chuckles. </p><p>"Pry away, I guess." </p><p>Amusement tugs at the corners of Jon's mouth and he stands, leaning over to where his jeans had been drying on the radiator before pulling them on quickly.</p><p>Martin averts his eyes, calling over to him instead. </p><p>"There's nothing fancy in it for breakfast, but I do have that cereal from Lidl, you know the one that's basically Country Store but purple." </p><p>"Country Store?" </p><p>"You've never had it?" </p><p>Martin finds himself genuinely surprised by this. </p><p>He'd have thought that, given that Jon was born an old man, he'd know Country Store, aka the peak of muesli and other grain-based cereals. </p><p>But this isn't the time to scare away his boss (his friend) by rhapsodising about cereal, so he just sets about to make tea. </p><p> </p><p>Jon, for his part, is unwilling to sit around and be waited on hand and foot so he stands up and stretches his arms up over his head, feeling the too-large sleeves of Martins t-shirt slide down onto his shoulders. </p><p>There's a small clatter behind him and he turns around quickly to see Martin fumbling with some cutlery. </p><p>He shrugs it off and then ambles over to check if his shirt is dry yet.</p><p>It isn't quite dry under the collar, so he flips up the stiff fabric and ambles over to the kitchen table. </p><p>Martin looks oddly anxious. </p><p>"Do you want to eat anything?" </p><p>"Ah, no thank you, I'm not really one for breakfast foods." </p><p>"You know, not eating breakfast leads to the death of brain cells." </p><p>"I think I've already sat through enough meetings with Elias to kill off plenty of brain cells, I'll be fine." </p><p>Martin wheezes a laugh. </p><p>Jon smirks. </p><p>"I'm not going to judge you based off your cereals." </p><p>Martin looks completely dumbstruck. </p><p>"Sorry, what?" </p><p>Now the one to feel awkward, Jon motions to the box of cereal. </p><p>"Your… ah," </p><p>If a pit were to open underneath him right now and swallow him whole- actually probably best not to finish that line of thought. </p><p> </p><p>Boy, does Martin wish he had a hole to crawl into right about now. </p><p>He casts about wildly for something to talk about, and remembers one of the conversations from last night. </p><p>"Are you looking forwards to your date?" </p><p>Jon looks up distractedly. </p><p>"My what?"</p><p>"Your date? With Sashas friend?" </p><p>"Oh, ah, yes. This… Alex… person." </p><p>"Are you looking forwards to meeting them?" </p><p>Jon rolls back his shoulders and sighs. </p><p>"I'm looking forwards to Tim and Sasha no longer meddling in my personal life." </p><p>"Bold of you to assume that they'll ever stop. Tim is probably going to badger you until you retire and even then, I reckon Sasha will still be around to give you, uh, encouragement to socialise." </p><p>"And you?" </p><p>Jon looks up as he says this, and something about the sincerity in his expression robs Martin of whatever joke he had been about to make. </p><p>"I'll-" </p><p>He starts again, swallowing thickly. </p><p>"I'll still be there." </p><p>"I'll be glad of it." </p><p>The moment feels too charged for breakfast, but too important to interrupt, so Martin just focuses on eating his cereal and avoiding eye contact. </p><p> </p><p>Later, once Jon is dressed in his now-dry clothes and getting ready to leave, a question occurs to Martin. </p><p>"Where are you actually going to be meeting this person?" </p><p>"Why?" </p><p>"Just curious" </p><p>Jon looks considering for a moment and then-</p><p>"The park." </p><p>"Which one?" </p><p>"Ah, the one by the Asda" </p><p>"Oh, yeah, I know the one." </p><p>There's a beat and then-</p><p>"Why?" </p><p>"Oh, it's just that it's hard to picture you, y'know, in a park by yourself." </p><p>"I mean, I’ll be with whoever this person is that Sasha wants me to meet" </p><p>"Like, yeah, but if it goes anywhere how the last two went, would you not rather you have someone familiar to fall back on?" </p><p>"Contrary to popular belief I am not some defenceless child, I am perfectly capable of looking after myself." </p><p>"-and I respect that, but considering all we’ve been through at the Archives lately, don’t you think it would be worth it to have someone as back up just in case?"</p><p>"Why do you care what happens to me?" </p><p>The jab stings, and it seems Jon regrets it himself but before he can open his mouth, either to apologise or dig himself deeper, Martin cuts him off. </p><p>"Because regardless of what you may think, you’re my- you’re our friend and we care about you! We don’t want to see you miserable anymore than we want to see Elias happy!" </p><p>Jon stares at him, unused to such an uncharacteristic outburst. </p><p>Martin states back, anxiety coursing through because 'oh god I talked back to him I'm fired I'm fired I'm fired I'm fired I'm-' </p><p>"Fine." </p><p>Hang on, what? </p><p>"Hang on, what?" </p><p>Jon scratches at a scar on his throat. </p><p>"Maybe," he begins slowly. "Maybe you have a point." </p><p>"Oh." </p><p>He hadn't actually expected that to work. </p><p>"Are, uh, are you sure?" </p><p>Jon rolls his eyes theatrically. </p><p>"Did you not just essentially demand to come along so you can make sure I don’t get kidnapped by knife-wielding maniacs?" </p><p>"Not my exact words, but sure." </p><p>"So it's settled then," says Jon as he opens the door. "I'll text you the details and you save me from axe-wielding murderers-" </p><p>("Axes?" </p><p>"They upgraded.")</p><p>"Though really," Jon calls back over his shoulder as he sets off down the corridor. "You're likely only going to be watching a very dull walk in the park." </p><p>Outside, it's a strange sort of day. </p><p>Last nights storm had blown itself out at some point during the wee hours, and now it wasn't quite cloudy, but it lacked the startlingly clarity one gets on clear winters days. </p><p>The wind isn't anywhere near as vicious as it was last night, but rather had sharpened to a knifes point, cutting through Jon's jacket in less of a 'chill you to the bone' sort of way and more in a manner that meant he could never quite get warm. </p><p> </p><p>By the time Jon reaches the park, he's already half-mourning the comfort of Martins couch. </p><p>His musings are interrupted by someone calling his name, and he looks up to see someone with (blonde? Brown?) hair and a nondescript, faded jacket looking at him expectedly. </p><p>"Oh, you must be Alex?" </p><p>He tries to keep his tone light, but their facial expression doesn't change. </p><p>In an effort to salvage the situation, he holds out his hand to shake. </p><p>"Ah, I'm Jon, Jon Sims? Hea-" </p><p>He manages to stop himself before he adds the now-habitual 'Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London' at the end. </p><p>It seems these days the only thing he introduces himself to is a tape recorder. </p><p>"I'm, ah, I work with Sasha? At the Institute?" </p><p>"I know." </p><p>Their tone is clipped, but lacks any inflection, so Jon just chalks it up to a combination of nerves, distaste for the weather and (though he hopes this part isn't true) distaste for him. </p><p>Their smile when he takes their hand is interested, but not engaged, like someone had told them a joke before he got there and the mirth had yet to fully leave their face.</p><p>He's a little shocked by how warm their hands are, almost as if they've been holding them over a fire. </p><p>There's a little niggling feeling at the edge of his mind that maybe this isn't a good idea, but he tamps it down, chalking it up to simply no longer being used to being around non-Institute people. </p><p>Maybe they have pocket warmers? </p><p>Something in Jon's lizard brain coos at the idea of a warm little pouch to wrap his hands around, and he makes a mental note to have a look around the shops for one. </p><p>He dimly registers that they had started walking, falling into step on the bockety path that encircles the park. </p><p>Remembering Tim trying to 'coach him' on making small talk, (I.e. Telling him things to say and when/why to say even when Jon was doing his level best not to listen) Jon makes a valiant effort at striking up conversation. </p><p>"So," he tries. "How long have you known Sasha?" </p><p>"I have known Sasha James a reasonable length of time." </p><p>For the second time in twenty four hours, Jon finds himself wishing for a pit to swallow him up. </p><p>Try again. </p><p>"I, uh, I can't quite place your accent, where are you from? I'm originally from Bournemouth, myself." </p><p>They throw a calculated look at him. </p><p>"I am from the area." </p><p>And so it continues.</p><p>Jon will ask a polite question, they will give the shortest answer possible.</p><p>He asks about their job, saying that he works with Sasha. </p><p>(To which he received a curt 'I know.') </p><p>He remembers Sasha mentioning they work at a bank, and he asks about what it's like. </p><p>("Yes, I work at a bank.") </p><p>It feels like this has gone on for hours, but when he looks up to the clock tower that squats in the middle of the park, barely five minutes have slouched by. </p><p>He finds himself lamenting his usual habit of losing time. </p><p>Oh, sure when he doesn't need to keep track of time, it flies by, but now that he's willing the minutes to go faster, they're taking their own sweet time. </p><p>To pass the time, he tries to get a gauge on his companion. </p><p>They don't seem to have any noticeable slouch, but he's also pretty sure that if they stood up straight that they would be slightly taller than him. </p><p>Not that that's unusual, pretty much everyone is taller than Jon so he doesn't pay it much attention. </p><p>He gives up on trying to learn about Alex, and instead resorts to rambling about some obscure aspect of history about the park that had somehow sunk into  his brain at some point. </p><p>His enthusiasm peeters out without the usual encouraging nods from Sasha or Martin or without Tims odd habits of making puns based off Jon's word choices (he does it to show he's listening, not just hearing, but sometimes Jon can't help but wish but to be able to tell an anecdote without the comedy routine). </p><p>He cuts short his rambling with a self-deprecating joke, hoping for some kind of sustainable reaction, but instead receives a vague look of disinterest.</p><p> </p><p>Never let it be said that Martin Blackwood doesn't follow through on his promises. </p><p>True to his word, he had arrived at the park at roughly the same time as Jon, and then made himself comfortable on a nearby bench. </p><p>He'd brought a notebook, and was intending to get some writing done, but the wind was making it difficult. </p><p>From where he was, he could see Jon and his… date… as they slowly made their way around the park walk. </p><p>He can't help but feel vaguely stalker-is as he watches the pair round the corner and start walking back in his direction, but his role in all of this is to keep an eye on things. </p><p>Like an old-fashioned chaperone. </p><p>Still, there's something… off… about the person Jon is with. </p><p>Jon is talking away, no doubt info-dumping about something, and the person seems to be listening, but there's something off about how they're looking at him. </p><p>It's not that they're gazing at him, fascinated by how his habit of reflexively tucking his loose hair behind his ears means there's now a permanent wave there that hangs down and frames his jaw just so-</p><p>'Focus, Blackwood.' </p><p>-but rather they're staring at him how a starving dog stares at the butchers window. </p><p>The pair draw closer and now Martin can hear what Jon is discussing, something about how there was originally intended to be a vault under the clock tower.</p><p>Whatever it is, his companion doesn't seem to be overly invested in paying attention, and as Martin watches, he sees them jump, and their hand shoots to their pocket.</p><p>Paranoia and a general knowledge of London have Martin on his feet, eyes scanning them for a knife, but no. </p><p>Instead they just pull a phone out of their pocket and answer it. </p><p>Martin feels his face flush and he tries to cover his suddenly jumping to his feet by pretending to be interested in the clock tower, its wizened face now reading twenty minutes past the hour. </p><p>He can hear them speaking, some language he doesn't recognise but sounds vaguely Slavic, rapid-fire into the phone. </p><p>He's just sitting back down when-</p><p>"Archivist." </p><p> </p><p>Jon doesn't notice. </p><p>"Archivist." </p><p>Wait. </p><p>"Oh! Ah, yes?" </p><p>The only… thing to call Jon 'Archivist' - </p><p>"I must leave." </p><p>-asides from Elias-</p><p>"Oh, so soon?" </p><p>-was Jane Prentiss - </p><p>"Yes. This is goodbye."</p><p>-and that hadn't gone well for literally anyone. </p><p>"Oh,very well then."</p><p>Something, be it paranoia or anxiety or something else entirely, has Martin turning on his heel and walking towards the pair as Jon's companion holds out their hand to shake. </p><p>Jon takes it, and is already screaming by the time Martin reaches them. </p><p> </p><p>Jon doesn't quite remember what happened. </p><p>He had been talking about the clock tower, desperate for something to fill the silence, when Alex had gotten a call. </p><p>They'd answered in what seemed to be Russian, before putting the phone away and turning to Jon, telling him that they had to leave. </p><p>For a brief second Jon had felt put out, though really that was more out of politeness than an actual vested interest in continuing this 'date'. </p><p>They'd held out their hand for him to shake, and he'd taken it, ignoring again that little feeling at the edges of his awareness telling him not to. </p><p>Their hand was uncomfortably hot, and only grew hotter as they tightened their grip. </p><p>Jon was vaguely aware he was screaming, the stench of scorched flesh filling his nose. </p><p>Alex' hand was ripped away, and Jon dropped to his knees, clutching desperately at his wrist. </p><p>He was vaguely aware of someone calling his name, and then he passed out. </p><p> </p><p>"Martin, it’s fine, really." </p><p>"You just had half your hand burned off by some creepy monster-person-thing! The doctor said you’re lucky it’s not worse!" </p><p>"It’s fine." </p><p>"Fine? Fine? Second-degree burns is not! Fine!" </p><p> </p><p>Needless to say, come Monday, Sasha feels awful.</p><p>She'd come in slightly early, and found Jon trying to open his office door, left arm holding his belongings, his right hand wrapped in a thick bandage up just past his wrist. </p><p>She'd enquired after what happened and he'd given her a brief rundown. </p><p>"Jon, I'm so sorry" </p><p>"It's alright, Sasha." </p><p>"No! I should have actually checked them out! I should have left you alone-" </p><p>"Sasha." Jon seems tired. "It's really quite alright, it's not your fault." </p><p>When Tim swans in, he sees the bandage and makes a joke about maybe letting Martin make the tea from now on. </p><p>At that, a funny look twists Jon's face. </p><p>"What?" asks Tim. "Don't tell me you actually managed that while making tea?" </p><p>"It's my fault-" starts Sasha. </p><p>"It really isn't." </p><p>Jon cuts her off swiftly. </p><p>"No, whatever that… thing was, I don't think it was altogether human anymore." </p><p>Tim casts around between them. </p><p>"What the fuck happened? We left you alone for one hour! One! How on earth did you manage to find the one spook in London willing to go out with you and then just- this?" </p><p>"Well I'll have you know I wasn't alone, actually. Martin was with me" </p><p>"Oh, we that changes everything, Martin is renowned for being so good at dealing with monsters" </p><p>"And it's a damn good thing he was too, or Elias may have found himself in a position to hire a new Archivist." </p><p>"Hang on, what?"</p><p>Tim seems to mirror Sashas confusion. </p><p>'I mean,' Sasha thought to herself. 'Martin is a great guy and all, but he's not really the hero type.' </p><p>"Well, I mean I don't really remember much, but I do recall Martin pulling them off me." </p><p>Tim looks baldly impressed. </p><p>"And where is the man, the myth, the legend?" </p><p>"What are you on about now, Tim?" </p><p>Tim rocks back on his heels, craning his neck to where Martin had just entered from the storage room. </p><p>"Oh, nothing," he grins. "Just about how you saved old Mister Sims here."</p><p>Martin, predictably, turns scarlet, the colour clashing horribly with his ginger hair. </p><p> "But," interjects Sasha. "I just don't get why they would do something like that! I mean, I've known them years and they've never seemed anything other than perfectly ordinary." </p><p>Jon looks considering for a moment before he speaks. </p><p>"Right. I, ah, I think that your friend… well. I’m sorry but I think that either you did not know them as well as you think, or that your ‘friend’ has been… replaced." </p><p>"Replaced?" </p><p>"Come off it, boss an!" Tim, attempts cheerfully "What happened to refusing to believe in all this ‘paranormal nonsense’." </p><p>"First off, I never said I don’t believe in anything, I said that ‘actual paranormal instances, such as they are, are exceedingly rare’. Secondly, it’s a little hard to believe that things aren’t real when they’re burning the skin off your hand." </p><p>"Shit! For real?" </p><p>"No, Tim." states Jon, deadpan. "This is an elaborate practical joke. This-" he waves his hand "- is a fun accessory. We have conspired against you for the sole purpose of making you look foolish. You have fallen into my dastardly trap."</p><p>'This isn’t funny but I want to laugh so bad.' </p><p>"I suppose now that you're all here, I can explain what happened so that you will then leave me alone about it?" </p><p>When no one objects, Jon sighs, rolls his shoulders and then begins a rather more detailed account. </p><p>It's not until he gets to the part where Martin suddenly appeared that he pauses, and looks at the other man curiously. </p><p>"How did you know?" </p><p>"I'm sorry?" </p><p>"You were there in seconds, how did you know something was about to happen?" </p><p>Martin shifts uncomfortably. </p><p>"They called you Archivist." </p><p>Jon hums. </p><p>"Did they?" </p><p>"Yeah, and, well, the last person to call you Archivist-" </p><p>"-was Jane Prentiss, and since that didn't end well for literally anyone-" </p><p>"No, you were right." </p><p>Tim looks like Christmas has come early. </p><p>Martin doesn't seem to know how to react. </p><p>"Without you, I would more than likely be dead right now. So, thank you, Martin." </p><p>And with that, Jon turns on his heel and strides off to his office, the door swinging shut behind him. </p><p> </p><p>Eleven o'clock comes, and Martin knocks at the door, tea in hand.</p><p>Jon calls him in, sounding weary. </p><p>"How you holding up?" Martin asks as he puts the cup down carefully. </p><p>"I'm fi-" </p><p>"Be honest." </p><p>Jon sighs, heavily. </p><p>"Tired. Sore. Frustrated." </p><p>He waves his bandaged hand around. </p><p>"I keep going to tie my hair up and then the bloody bandage gets in the way, and my hair keeps falling in my face and I could barely brush it this morning and-" </p><p>He heaves a breath, clearly intending to go on but Martin cuts him off. </p><p>"Do you want me to tie it up for you?" </p><p>Jo  waves him off. </p><p>"I'll manage." </p><p>"Alright then." </p><p>Martin is just about to open the door to leave when he hears a resigned sigh. </p><p>"Martin." </p><p>"Yes, Jon?" </p><p>He turns to see Jon holding his hair back awkwardly in his left hand, his right floating aimlessly by his head, the white bandage stark against his black hair. </p><p>"Would you help me, please?" </p><p>"No problem. " </p><p>He takes the thick hair tie off Jon and positions himself behind the aged office chair.. </p><p>Nerves give way to routine and he starts gently combing back Jon's hair with his fingers. </p><p>"Do you want me to plait it? It would be easier to deal with and you wouldn't have to worry about brushing it yet." </p><p>"Um, yeah, sure." </p><p>It's peaceful, this moment, it feels… </p><p>Nice. </p><p>"Where did you learn to plait hair? I thought you were an only child?" </p><p>"I am," hums Martin, blotting out the memory of his mother spewing cruelties at him as he tried to gently brush her hair. "It was just me and my mum growing up, and when she got sick I’d look after her. Y’know, brush her hair, clean the house, make dinner, all that stuff." </p><p>Jon seems surprised. </p><p>"How old were you?" </p><p>Martin cuts him off hurriedly. </p><p>"Oh, it wasn’t, like, neglectful on her part at all, she was always, uh, she was always making sure I knew what I was doing." </p><p>"Well, that’s good then." </p><p>"Yeah…" </p><p>"And how is she now? Your mum?" </p><p>"Oh, well, now I have a proper job I was able to put her in a care home." </p><p>"Well that’s good then." </p><p>"Yeah, she has nurses looking after her, and she doesn’t have to put up with me fretting over her." He laughs nervously </p><p>Jon doesn't seem to notice. </p><p>"I’m sure she misses you." </p><p>" ... yeah."</p><p>Martin clears his throat. </p><p>"Well, uh, there you go!" </p><p>He ties off the end of the plait and drapes it over Jon's shoulder for his inspection. </p><p>He doesn't want to leave this little bubble of calm just yet, and dawdles for a moment, one hand resting on the back of Jon's chair. </p><p>Still, he can't hide in Jon's office forever, and he shuffles past the desk and over to the door. </p><p>"Martin?" </p><p>"Yes, Jon?" he says, turning around perhaps a bit too quickly.</p><p>"Ah, thank you, truly." </p><p>Martin feels a genuine smile cross his face. </p><p>"No problem, Jon." </p><p> </p><p>Jon watches Martin close the door behind him, the soft 'click' of the door feeling much more significant than normal. </p><p>He raises his good hand to touch the tail of his plait, and smiles softly to himself.</p><p>Maybe there were good things in this world, after all. </p><p>
  
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks a million to the amazing kalgalen! Check out their work on tumblr <a href="https://kalgalen.tumblr.com/"> here </a> or on twitter <a href="https://twitter.com/kalgalen"> here </a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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